2)Somewhere in every living, breathing soul lies a corner of perfect darkness.

3)In between order and chaos is a grey area where there are no rules.

Ewan forced the book shut and let it slide from his fingertips, the last few stereotypical lines pushing the corner of his mouth upwards into a cruel, lopsided smile. He liked reading about love.

Possibly he enjoyed waving goodbye to the very last shadow of it. Or, much in the way archaeologists take excitement from a lost civilisation and zoologists treasure an extinct animal’s bones, he liked the knowledge that some sort of memorial was in place.

The whole world knew that love was very much deceased but no one had quite found the time to bury its limp corpse.

War, on the other hand, was well alive. And what a horrific, beautiful life it was living!

Thanks mate. I think poetry is difficult when you think about it. It’s almost a stream of consciousness – heart to paper without consulting your brain. It’s hardest to write when you actually want to write it. Pretend that you’re ignoring it and it’ll creep up on you and surprise you with inspiration. x